![]() ![]() The guitars bleed feedback and cry out notes later in the track, and in many moments it drowns out Cale. Cale’s delivery is more dramatic monologue than reading, but behind him the band knocks out a funkier version of its straight-ahead rock charge. “The Gift” is still the toughest thing to tangle with here, as Cale recites the story of Waldo Jeffers (written by Lou Reed for a class at Syracuse), who mails himself to his girlfriend, only to be stabbed to death when she tries to open the box. This same division comes up in the album’s two most infamous moments. Reed twists the melodies in his mouth, spitting them out sideways, meshing Cale’s avante-garde leanings with his own. When Reed steps in halfway through the song to let us know that the nurse Cale is singing about is thinking “sweetly”, it turns that word and the song in its ear, as the perfect hooks tumble into a harrowing mash-up of sounds. The juxtaposition of Cale’s sweet Welsh accent and gauzy singing to Reed’s bleating sneer on “Lady Godiva’s Operation” is perfect. Reed and John Cale were struggling for control creatively, and Cale would leave soon after this record, but the competition inherent in the band makes them thrive here. But it’s these other moments that might better represent where the record broke from its predecessor, and how tensions within the band shaped this album. These are, of course, the recognized “songs” on the record, the more approachable moments wrapped around the difficult story-song “The Gift” and the massive noise-jam of “Sister Ray”. We can draw lines to the guitar lunacy of “I Heard Her Call My Name”, but also to the faintly tense repetition of “Here She Comes Now”, or even the twanging of riffs and rumbling drums on “Lady Godiva’s Operation”. It sets up later moments on the record, but not all the same. It’s a perfect pop song couched in punk thrills, a kind of furious energy that borders on formless but never quite unravels. The back and forth vocals seem to mix the cool of the first record with Reed’s R&B fascination, yet the guitars crunch wildly, the keys strike like snakes, the cymbals crash like shattering glass. The album covers six songs in 40 minutes, and though it starts with its catchy title track, right away we know something is different on this album. And it’s from that place that White Light/White Heat picks up. This restraint is what makes moments like “Venus in Furs” or the guitar chaos of “Heroin” so revelatory, so exciting. The muted cool of Nico’s voice, the dreamy sway of songs like “Sunday Morning” (a late addition to the record), and the band’s airtight melodies made for a record that was confrontational in subject matter, but often sweetly approachable. But his want to include Nico, and his sheer cult of personality, does seem to shape the record some. The connection to Andy Warhol would seem to have something to do with this, though all accounts claim he did little more than pay for the recordings. The Velvet Underground’s debut, a clear classic, is also an often controlled pop record. It reveals the band’s thorny, excellent vision for the album, and reminds us why music will miss a presence like Lou Reed for quite a while. Nearly half a century later we’re still trying to figure it out, but this new edition gives us the most material to sift through, and perhaps the best pathway through this era in the band’s history. In the wake of the more restrained Velvet Underground and Nico, White Light/White Heat must have been a perplexing record to hear upon its release in January 1968. It’s noisy but within that noise is beautiful sounds, brilliant songs. It’s difficult but never (or almost never) intentionally so. It is a perfect distillation of Reed’s musical approach. This definitive edition of the Velvet Underground‘s second album was in the works before Lou Reed passed away earlier this year, but to hear this album again, and to hear it in the context of all these fascinating extras, is to find the best way to honor Reed’s legacy. ![]()
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